Safe Passage

During that first season, the snap collection grew rapidly, though it was not until the following year that I plucked up enough courage to ask Ponselle herself. As I told her long afterwards, I used to follow her through Embankment Gardens, near the Savoy Hotel where she stayed, trying to summon enough courage to ask if I might photograph her. She was very much amused, but a good deal mystified as to why anyone should ever have been in awe of her. But in those days, our stars were gods and goddesses to us, and I must say that their remoteness and mystique added greatly to their charm and glamour.

On the night of what was to be Ponselle’s final appearance, she was unwell and Pacetti sang instead. I remember when Louise and I arrived at the queue that evening, Ray announced with a sort of malicious relish for the drama of the moment, “Ponselle has sung her last performance.”

Thinking she must have walked under a bus or something, we gave gratifying shrieks of horror. Then Ray saw fit to explain. He was referring only to that season and that there had been a cancellation. But he spoke more truly than he knew. She never returned to Covent Garden to sing again. The following season was an entirely German one, and in later years, the management changed, and of course Ponselle made other connections. She had indeed sung her last performance at Covent Garden. Fortunately, we were unaware of it then and went on hoping for some years longer.

The next day, Louise and I received some compensation for that final cancellation: one of the very few personal letters written by Ponselle at that period. She was never a great letter-writer and, in the busiest days of her career, she scarcely ever put pen to paper. But, in return for the snap I had sent her, she sent a wonderful photograph of herself in the third act of Traviata with a note saying that if we came to New York again—which we had mentioned as a possibility one day—we were to come around backstage at the Met to see her.

Something else occurred about this time that tended to take my mind off any disappointment. I had continued to write the occasional article for Mabs Fashions, and I received a letter from the editor saying that she would like to meet me. Would I come to see her one afternoon?

I obtained permission to leave my Law Courts’ office early one afternoon and went to Fleetway House to see Miss Taft—the woman to whom I owe all my training and all my early chances. I had never entered a publishing office before, much less been interviewed by an editor. But she soon put me at my ease and made that most flattering of all requests: to talk about myself.

I did so. At great length, I am sure.

“But did you never think of becoming a journalist?” Miss Taft asked.

“Oh, no!” I assured her, rather shocked. I was a permanent civil servant with a pension at sixty. Safe until I was nailed down in my coffin, in fact.

She was unimpressed and merely said, “Well, think about it now. I am going to start a new weekly in the autumn, and I should like you for my fiction sub.”

I didn’t really know what a fiction sub was, but I was flattered that anyone wanted me as anything. However, it still sounded terribly unsafe in comparison with my civil service job. This all sounds quite extraordinary now, I have no doubt, but in those days there were three people waiting for every job. So I continued to shake my head doubtfully.

“Well, go away,” said Miss Taft, smiling, “and think it over. If you do want the job, it is yours.”

I went away and not only thought about it, but being very loquacious by nature, I talked about it too. Several people said, “But it’s a great chance! Don’t just throw it away. People are walking about ready to give their eye-teeth for that sort of chance.”

When I thought about it again, the pension at sixty didn’t seem quite so attractive, after all. In the end, I gave up my lovely safe job and the pension and went into Fleet Street as a fiction sub-editor at four pounds four shillings a week—one pound and four shillings more than I was getting as a government shorthand-typist.

And there, for the first several months at any rate, I was a complete failure.

I suppose it was inevitable. Most girls who go into that world do so at a much earlier age and learn the general jargon and rudiments of the profession as juniors. I hardly knew what people were talking about, much less what I should be doing, and I must have been a phenomenally slow learner.

When they gave me short articles to write up, I was fairly happy, but in periodical make-up I was an infant in arms, and not a very intelligent one, at that.

As fiction sub, one of my most horrible tasks was to arrange the proportional size of illustrations and copy. The original illustrations that come in are perhaps twenty by thirty inches. By a system of simple mathematical calculation, which to this day I have never grasped, a measurement along one side must indicate what the general size of the finished “pull” should be. Mine was the wildest guesswork. The pulls either came up like postage stamps or like recruiting posters, and I suppose I must have wasted a good deal of the firm’s money in useless “blocks.”

Also, I was not at all good at estimating the space that the “copy,” or printed matter, would take up. Consequently, on press day I was faced with hair-raising and expensive cutting or with the even more grisly task of adding perhaps five hundred words to a story, without altering its sense, and so that no one could detect the “joins.” This was the only part of my work at which I became adept—presumably because I had so much practice. Again, dreadfully expensive to the firm.

In addition, I had made as a condition of my accepting the post that I be allowed four or five weeks’ leave early in the new year. Louise and I had made all our preparations for another visit to the States. I was sufficiently honest to make it clear that if this proviso was unacceptable, I was prepared to forego the job.

This proviso was accepted. What I had not sufficient sense to see was that for one member of a small staff—and the least efficient one by far—to go junketing off to the States during the difficult first months of launching a new publication could hardly make me popular with all and sundry.

Even I knew that I took my departure in anything but a harmonious atmosphere. Nowadays, I would have enough sense to compromise and smooth things over. Then, I was crude, and silly enough to stand on my—undoubted—rights, and go off, feeling justified, if uneasy.

In those early weeks of 1932, America was still suffering badly from the depression, and the atmosphere was very different from the gorgeous prosperity of our first visit, five years previous. Even so, there were vigorous signs of recovery. And so far as our own future was concerned, Louise and I saw things in pretty bright colours.

I was hardly shining at my new job, but I expected things to improve. Meanwhile, I was earning a larger salary than in any job I had held previously. Though we had no definite plans, we certainly had vague expectations of returning to the States again and again. We had found our pattern and felt that our future depended solely on our efforts. In our naïve and rather ignorant minds, we could never have conceived of the rivers of blood and high tide of war that were to sweep between this visit and the next. I realize now that, even though we were in our late twenties, we were not entirely grown up.

This time, the whole of our visit was spent in New York City. But the opera season was on, and we asked for nothing better. However, perhaps Fate had smiled upon us a little too often. Several things went wrong with this third visit. First, we arrived some weeks later than originally planned. Because of the financial upheaval, sailings had been altered and postponed. Of course, in those days there was no air traffic to ease the situation.

Consequently, we arrived almost as Lita and Homer were due to depart on a South African tour, and that gave us only one day with them in New York. They arrived in town with everything packed and ready so that we could spend the whole day together. But it was cruelly short, and the very next day, we went down to the boat to see them off to South Africa.

Louise and I felt thoroughly tearful, and possibly looked it, because I remember Lita whispering, “Don’t cry, girls, or I shall too, and it looks so bad for me to start out on a concert tour in tears!”

Thus adjured, we preserved British calm and waved them away on a separation that lasted another two years.

Secondly, we had arrived when the most glowing nights of the season were already waning, so there was only one Ponselle performance for us. However, this was Gioconda, one of her finest roles, and we had her permission to go around and see her “any time we were at the Met.”

We arrived at the opera house, full of joyful anticipation—only to discover that she was ill. An inconsiderable substitute sang in her place. We sat stolidly and miserably through the performance, and at the end, because we simply had to tell someone, we told the woman sitting beside us how we had come all the way from England, that this was our one Ponselle performance, and we had had to put up with a substitute.

She was full of sympathy and cried, “Isn’t that just too bad! Wasn’t Ponselle singing then? I never noticed.”

We went back to our hotel hating everyone.

However, the next day there appeared an announcement that Ponselle would be singing in a concert at the Metropolitan, well within the limits of our visit. Greatly cheered, we bought our tickets and went.

This was the last time that Louise heard her sing in public, although I heard her twice more in Florence in 1933. I remember everything about her performance that night. She was in black, the dramatic black so suitable for her exotic beauty. With an almost backless dress, she wore long black gloves, and over these, the most magnificent, matching diamond bracelets. If anyone had described that get-up to me without my seeing it, I could have told who wore it.

Afterwards, we went around backstage and were received very kindly. But we were shy, and depressed because she was leaving New York the next day; we could not possibly hear her again. Also, she told us that she thought it was unlikely she would be at Covent Garden that year. It seemed there was not to be an Italian Season. Everything was going wrong for the disillusioned Cooks!

However, there was one tremendously bright spot in that visit: the first American performance of Simon Boccanegra. It was one of the finest productions I ever saw. Tremendously lavish, but everything had a real meaning. No slowly closing doors, unnecessary staircases or the other irrelevant clutter that often passes for “significant” staging today.

The cast included Pinza, unbelievably magnificent in the comparatively secondary role of Fiesco.

I had brought with me to America a specially dressed doll for Claudia Pinza. We had left it for her at the Metropolitan. Toward the end of our visit, we not only received a letter of thanks from her, but on the very last evening of our visit—after a superb Simon Boccanegra—we were taken home by the Pinzas to the Ansonia Hotel, where they then lived, and entertained at supper.

In those days, Pinza knew very little English, and Louise and I, even less Italian. But we all managed somehow, and our last night in New York was very gay and charming.

The next day, or rather late that night, we left New York for home once more. We stayed up on deck for a long while, watching the lights of Manhattan, as we slowly drew away into the darkness. Louise and I talked of returning soon, making tentative plans that were never to materialize. We did, I recollect, feel more than usually sad over our departure, but I am glad we had no inkling of what lay ahead in the years before we were to see New York again.

5 (#u8bb7b962-b362-548d-a408-f442cef45488)

By the time we returned to England, it was still only mid-March and I found myself up against a situation as bleak as the weather. No one could pretend that I was good at my journalistic job. I was not. In addition, I had to live down what was considered my underserved luck for having had a wonderful trip to the States while everyone else had been working hard.

At one point, I told one of my former colleagues at the Law Courts I had made a terrible mistake, and oh, why had I left my safe civil service job with its inevitable pension at sixty?

However, dear Wynne never allowed defeats to depress her.—It was she who said to me on the day France fell, “Isn’t it a relief? Now there’s no one left to let us down.”—On this occasion she said, “Give it one week longer and see if things don’t improve a little.”

So I tried once more. Perhaps that week I made just a few less silly mistakes, and the illustrations were measured up just a little more successfully. Anyway, I stayed.